Smoke Under Glass
by auralmechanic
Summary: Chaos contained within a steady shell. Racing mind, calm voice. Riotous heart, steady hands. Johnlock drabbles, maybe a few other pairings thrown in. T to be safe, rating may go up.
1. Sibling Rivalry

**A/N:** Hey guys, thanks for reading. First shot at Sherlock drabbles, working off a 30 prompt table from the 100_prompts forum on LJ.

Promt: Defiant  
Word count: 419  
Warnings: mild swears, slight one-sided Johnlock, one-sided Watstrade if you squint, and mild reference to homophobia I guess?

* * *

"Hold on." Greg scratched the back of his neck, looking at his companion questioningly. "You're going to have to run that by me again."

"You heard me," John replied, burying his nose in his drink, a feeble attempt to hide the light blush spreading across his cheeks.

"So let me get this...straight..." the silver-haired DI smirked slightly at the unintended pun, "The only reason you're so determined to keep a date...the reason you spout 'I'm not gay' like a bloody mantra as soon as anyone so much as looks at you sideways...is because of a bet with your sister?"

John, now an intriguing shade of pink, set his beer down and cleared his throat. "Ah...yes, that's about right. It's become a bit of a game for us, who can stay publicly closeted the longest. Obviously we can't out each other. Only our closest friends can know, and if it ever becomes common knowledge..." He shrugged. "Sort of a nostalgic pull from when we were both hiding it from our parents."

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "I knew you were a stubborn bastard, but that you're so sodding defiant as to deny yourself because of some twisted sibling rivalry..." He took a sip of his own drink, considering. "Does Sherlock know?"

John shook his head. "No. Never saw point in telling him, really."

At this, Greg raised a brow.

John sighed. "Alright, fine. Honestly, d'you think he'd see the point in keeping it a secret? One passing comment and the whole damn department knows. I'd rather not risk it, stupid as that is."

Lestrade tilted his head, thinking, measuring the slightly forlorn look on John's face. "You know..." he began slowly.

John's brow furrowed, recognizing the contemplative look on his friend's face. "Do I want to?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Well, I was just thinking...I'm not exactly one of Harry's close friends..."

John blinked, still not catching on.

Greg sighed and continued. "And technically you didn't out her to me, Sherlock did..."

Slowly, a look of understanding dawned on John's face. "So what you're saying is..."

"You've won." Greg took a satisfied pull from his beer. He could see why Sherlock actually deigned to feed information to John until he understood, just to see that enlightened look.

John sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "Well that's...uncomfortable."

Greg looked at him, his expression asking the unspoken question.

John gave him a crooked smile. "Now that I have no reason not to tell Sherlock, I'm going to want to."

* * *

_**Reviews are the biting Sherlock to my bumbling John. **_


	2. Besides, flour's a powerful explosive

**A/N: **Bit of fluff, because I luffles these two like you wouldn't believe.

Prompt: Powder  
Word Count: 261  
Warnings: mild reference to drug use, messy kitchens and slight fluff.

* * *

Coming home to discover his flatmate covered in an unknown substance was not unusual for John; half the time the substance even turned out to be reasonably innocent. So when he topped the stairs to find Sherlock sitting in his chair in his typical 'thinking' pose as if nothing was wrong, covered in a fine white powder, he paused a moment. He refused to jump to the obvious conclusion right away, knowing that such accusations wounded Sherlock's pride.

Didn't stop him from making a jab at it, though. "Care to explain then, Mr. Charlie Sheen?"

Sherlock blinked once, his eyes refocusing on John. "Mister who?"

John sighed, bringing the groceries into the kitchen. "Nevermind. What have you got all over you and how did you get it there?"

The detective blinked again, then looked down, as if just remembering his current state. "Oh. Right. I was conducting an...uhm...experiment, in the kitchen, and it...well it didn't go quite as planned..."

"Figured as much," John replied absently, setting his new boxes of tea on their shelf. That's when he noticed the large mixing bowl on the counter, full of a soupy, off-white mixture. From there his eyes tracked the evidence across the counter, a trail of measuring cups and stirring utensils. "Sherlock, were you...baking?"

No response.

John walked back out into the living room, stopping in front of his silent flatmate. "Is this flour?" He asked, voice laughing, brushing some of the powder off the brilliant man's face.

"No," Sherlock replied, silver eyes dancing as he licked his lover's fingers clean. "Icing sugar."


	3. TMI

**A/N:** Bit of a different perspective, here.

Prompt: Grateful  
Words: 266  
Warnings: Mycroft brain, references to sexual activity and kink. Also explosives.

* * *

_Sometimes,_ Mycroft reflected, as he stepped over a pile of yellowing documents, _I'm glad my brother is too observant for my usual tastes._

Not that this happened often, mind you. It was because of Sherlock's irritatingly sharp observational skills that Mycroft was here in 221B the first place, to steal back the notebook he thought had been secure in his jacket pocket, buttoned up, no less. But no, his brother had spotted it and somehow gotten it out without Mycroft noticing. And as it held notes on the comings and goings of several of his agents, he needed it back. Even more so, he needed it out of his brother's mischievous hands.

Mycroft glanced around, almost reluctantly taking in information about the flat even as he searched for his notebook. Stack of books there, knocked over pile of newspapers-tripped over on the way to the couch? Skull sitting atop a crate full of books leftover from the case John had dubbed The Blind Banker. Blanket mussed and skewed haphazardly over the couch, John's beret hanging off one arm. Belt coiled on the floor behind the couch, as if dropped there. Small pile of unwashed dishes. Acid burn. Two pairs of pants, one purple silk, one military issue grey cotton. Stick of dynamite. Lab coat, covered in multicoloured stains. Another stack of books, the topmost of which was Mycroft's notebook. Underneath a half-empty bottle of lubricant and a riding crop.

Mycroft sighed, retrieving the notebook delicately. Yes, he was certainly grateful his little brother had been observant enough to find and dismantle all the security cameras.


	4. Like the Streets of London

**A/N:** Alright, here's the deal with updates. I'm in the middle of exams right now, so they'll be sporadic but hopefully two, maybe three chapters each. Once exams are over I'm hoping to update daily. We'll see how that goes.

Prompt: Decent  
Word Count: 507  
Warnings: The boys in suits, Sherlock's sex voice.

* * *

John fidgeted with his sleeves, adjusting the distance between the cuffs of his shirt and suit jacket until they looked just so, wondering if it was proper for his shirt sleeves to be showing at all, and wishing for the umpteenth time that he'd taken Mycroft's advice and worn this new suit a little to get used to it before the party. He'd just been in too much awe of the expensive garments, worried that he'd somehow irreparably ruin the delicate steel grey cloth. He'd worn the shirt once, because black was hard to sully, but the trousers, jacket and waistcoat had been left alone in their suit bag.

Giving up on his sleeves, John switched to adjusting his tie, a fine one of charcoal grey silk that had been a gift from Mrs. Hudson. This, of course, was a useless affair-he was a military man, of course he knew how to tie a tie-so he let his hands drop, twitching at the line of his trousers, checking their fall against his shiny black shoes.

_Stop fidgeting, Watson, _he told himself sternly. He clasped his hands behind his back, a looser version of standing at ease, and waited.

...for about ten seconds. Growling to himself, he knocked on Sherlock's door. "Holmes, are you decent?"

The muffled reply came instantly. "I'm nearly ready, John, have a little patience. And don't think for one moment your nerves are any excuse to go military-last-names on me."

John sighed, taking a step back. Honestly, Sherlock took longer to get ready than any of the women John had ever dated. How he managed it, John didn't know, because how long did it really take to put on a suit? And it wasn't as if he ever did anything with his hair, just let it fall in that unruly mop, and cologne wasn't that much of a challenge either, so why-_oh._

Because Sherlock had just come out of his room and John's brain actually stopped a moment.

When it started up again, it was very focused. On Sherlock. Sherlock, in a black jacket and trousers, cut to emphasize his very lean frame. Sherlock, in a deep midnight blue shirt that turned his eyes to quicksilver and his skin to pale marble. Sherlock, with those finishing touches, silver cufflinks, black silk tie, smug smirk touching his lips as he all but basked in John's open-mouthed awe.

Sherlock, looking downright _indecent_, John finally decided. He closed his mouth, clearing his throat. "R-right then. Uhm. Ready to go, then?"

Sherlock stepped in close, so close John could feel the rumble of his deep velvet voice in his own chest. "Oh, I'm...ready to _go_, John." He replied, the words heavy with heat and implication. John swallowed hard.

"Alright then...shall we? Mycroft will be waiting."

John attempted to regain his composure as Sherlock linked his arm through his and they set off down the hall. He knew that look on his detective's face, that thrum in his voice. He wasn't going to survive the night.


	5. How can we know the dancer

**A/N: **And part two of today's update. This can be read as a continuation from the last, if you'd like.

Prompt: Union  
Words: 538  
Warnings: Mycroft making dirty jokes.

* * *

_Dancing, _Sherlock decided, _just can't decide what it is. A blend of music, visual art and a certain amount of acting, coupled with physical stamina and dexterity...it's difficult to categorize._

He smiled as he watched John twirl Molly around on the dance floor, the shy young woman laughing openly, a grin touching the corners of John's eyes at her enjoyment. He was happy to see the pathologist relaxing and opening up a little, he realized, a bit startled, then amused at his surprise. Yes, he supposed he cared about Molly, in his own way. Why else would he feel a hint of satisfaction at her loss of self-consciousness and her complete ease in her beautiful bronze silk cocktail dress? Especially since she'd decided against heels and was wearing a pair of stylish flat-soled slippers, much better for her ankles, leaving her much more sure-footed as she followed the steps of the line dance into Lestrade's arms as John took Harry, smirking up at his slightly taller sister.

Sherlock was so enthralled in keeping track of every muscle tension and release involved in every step of the dance, he didn't notice that anyone had come to stand next to him until they cleared their throat.

He glanced to the side. "Just because I haven't danced yet, Mycroft, doesn't mean I won't, never fear."

Mycroft chuckled. "I don't doubt John will force you into at least one, what with the way he's been looking at you all evening."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did intend to play the social butterfly, but if you're going to be an arrogant bastard about it-"

"Now now, Sherlock, language...I must say, the good doctor's _ filthy_ mouth has _been rubbing off_ on you lately..."

Sherlock growled. "_Enough._ It's horrid enough hearing jokes like that from half the Yarders. Hearing them from you, dear brother, is far too much."

Mycroft smirked. "Fine. If you intended to play the social butterfly, why are you over here by yourself? Certainly not watching John like a forlorn, jealous puppy, you're far too self-assured for that."

"It was my idea he dance with Molly, loosen the poor girl up a bit. I'm glad to see it's working. You _know_ what I'm doing, Mycroft, don't play ignorant."

The elder Holmes smiled, a bit of fondness tingeing the expression. "You always were enthralled by dancing. The union of physical and artistic grace."

Sherlock smiled to himself, remembering. Evenings as a child, forbidden from his parent's parties, finding his way to upper balconies to watch, invisible, counting steps and wondering how such dull, boring people could come to life in such a way. Then, when he was old enough to participate, dancing with anyone he could, learning, watching and experiencing people in a way that was otherwise unseen.

And now, watching his John, his good doctor, feeling his satisfaction as he placed his hands and feet and arms just right, tracing each step and movement perfectly. He watched as John's compact body took on an elegance it didn't usually have, his eyes alight and his expressions free. And those glances, every time he was facing the right way, those little looks of longing towards Sherlock, inviting him out to join the dance.


End file.
